


Blow Me

by ibonekoen



Series: Clint is a Little Shit [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, bb!Clint/Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibonekoen/pseuds/ibonekoen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, hey, listen,” Barton begins in that slow, easy drawl of his as his fingers twist the cap back onto the bottle, “I was thinking. You got me off the other night, and I didn’t really get to return the favor. I kinda hate owing people stuff, so why don’t we knock off early, go back to your place and I’ll get on my knees and blow you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow Me

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Trouble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/479369). I don't own Clint or Phil or SHIELD or anything related to Marvel. I'm just playing in their sandbox. Unbetaed, so any mistakes are my own.

It’s been two weeks since that night in Coulson’s hotel room, and he can’t get the feel of Barton writhing against him or the hot caress of the kid’s breath across his ear out of his head. The phantom sensations have manifested consistently enough that his routine weekly masturbation sessions have ramped up to daily. If he happens to catch a glimpse of Barton licking his lips or flashing that damned panty-melting grin, that tally doubles or even _triples_ that day.

It’s getting to the point of ridiculousness. He’s a grown man, not some teenager who has no control over his own body and has to sneak away to take care of himself in a stall of the men’s room on the Helicarrier, spewing curses and breathless moans as his head bows forward, one hand pressed flat against the wall as the other moves over his hot, flushed, dripping-

Oh god, and now he’s imagining _Barton_ in that position, and it’s just- Ridiculous. Just ridiculous. He scrubs his hand down his face and exhales in exasperation.

“This has got to stop,” he mutters before shuffling papers across his desk. There’s a knock on his door, and he tenses, half-afraid that it’s Barton, as if the sheer force of Coulson’s thoughts could summon him to his door.

Then the door opens, and it’s just Sitwell, handing in some field reports. Coulson relaxes as he accepts the stack of papers, and he thanks his fellow agent, grateful for the distraction.

~*~*~

He can only avoid Barton for so long though; he _is_ the kid’s handler, after all. He’s supposed to be overseeing Barton’s training.

With that thought in mind, he heads down to the training area, where Barton is learning hand-to-hand combat. Coulson folds his arms over his chest, keeping his face neutral as he watches Barton slash and stab and whip the small knife in his hand around; he’s good, his movements fluid, and Coulson’s eyes are drawn to the ripple of the kid’s muscles, the way his arm veins protrude from his skin. It’s sweaty, sinewy goodness, and Jesus Christ, maybe coming down here to watch wasn’t such a good idea after all. Coulson tugs at his tie and glances around to see if anyone looks as hot as he feels.

No? Just him? Well, okay then.

Eventually — though not soon enough, as far as Coulson’s concerned (thanks to this little training session, he’s got enough mental images to keep his nocturnal activities going for at least another month or two before he’s exhausted them all) — Barton’s trainer calls a halt and the kid wanders over to a discarded towel dropped on the floor at the edge of the mat. He bends down, snagging the towel and a bottle of water, and pats his face down as he straightens. The towel gets draped over his shoulder, and he’s untwisting the cap of the bottle when his head comes up and his eyes meet Coulson’s.

It’s like somebody flips a switch; that’s how fast the exhaustion and fatigue on his face is replaced by something that Coulson could easily mistake for elation and something else that is much more familiar, a look he’s seen on Barton’s face before — lasciviousness.

Coulson resolutely ignores the whisper of a thrill that makes its way up his spine as Barton outright _swaggers_ over to him, throat muscles working as he takes a long pull on the water bottle.

When the bottle is half-drained and he’s standing right in front of Coulson, the kid’s mouth lets go of the bottle with a loud, absolutely lewd, wet pop that almost has Coulson fanning himself, and then his lips curl into a lustful smirk as his eyes sweep over Coulson from head to toe.

“So, hey, listen,” Barton begins in that slow, easy drawl of his as his fingers twist the cap back onto the bottle, “I was thinking. You got me off the other night, and I didn’t really get to return the favor. I kinda hate owing people stuff, so why don’t we knock off early, go back to your place and I’ll get on my knees and blow you.”

Coulson nearly chokes on a breath of air, and he feels his cheeks heat up as his eyes dart back and forth. When he’s satisfied that no one heard Barton’s little remark, he grabs the kid’s biceps (and his brain nearly short-circuits as his fingers close around that solid-as-a-rock muscle) and yanks him into the locker room, shoving him neatly into a little alcove behind the doors.

“Now, listen to me, you little punk,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper and just firm enough to be scolding without any real heat of anger, “this is neither the place nor the time for such crass talk; not to mention the fact that it’s highly inappropriate since I’m your _boss_.”

Barton’s smirking at him, his eyes dancing with mischief, and Coulson has half a second to realize that they’re mere inches apart, his knee wedged between Barton’s legs, and then Barton is kissing him, a hard, bruising kiss that sets his lips on fire and sends a pulse of white hot lust shooting through him.

He lets the kiss go on for far too long, and when he finally plants his hand flat against Barton’s sternum and physically _pushes_ himself away from the kid, they’re both breathing hard and spots are dancing across Coulson’s vision. He blinks them away with a mild sense of irritation, and then scowls at the kid. Then his breath catches in his throat, the rebuke dying on his lips.

Barton is standing there, his eyes darkened and pupils blown wide, his lips bruised and shining with spittle, and god, if he isn’t a vision of debauchery with his hair askew. Coulson doesn’t even remember grabbing the kid’s hair, but there’s a faint sense memory of soft, silky strands crushed under his fingers, and he feels his heart thathumbing against his chest, erratic, staccato beats.

The kid shatters the weighted silence between them with a grousing “Come on, jeez, what is it with you and stopping when things are getting good?” Then he’s reaching out, fingers settling on the back of Coulson’s neck, and it’s only sheer force of will that has Coulson flattening his hands against the alcove walls and locking his arms to prevent Barton from pulling him closer and continuing the kiss. Hurt flickers briefly across Barton’s face and then it’s stamped down, his eyes clouding over as they narrow into an almost petulant glare.

“You are my co-worker, Clint.” Coulson’s voice is all softness this time, and he has to ignore how right Barton’s given name feels on his tongue. “I haven’t even mentioned the fact that you’re underage.”

Barton lifts his chin, defiance flashing in his eyes. “I’ll be eighteen in a couple of months, if that’s what you’re worried about. Come on, it’s not like I’m saying we pick out china patterns or something. It’s just a little fun. What’s the harm?” He catches his lower lip between his teeth as he eyes Coulson, and then he’s darting in close again.

Coulson manages to turn his head at the last second, and Barton’s kiss falls on his jawline, just below his earlobe, instead, setting fire to that patch of skin. Coulson’s stomach drops hard as Barton’s tongue flicks out, touching his earlobe, and then he shoves himself off the wall, taking two engulfing steps backwards. Then, as an afterthought, he takes a third, smaller step back.

“No.” he says simply. “Hit the showers, Barton. I’ll see you tomorrow for your mission briefing.”

The hurt he sees in Barton’s eyes is quickly replaced with youthful enthusiasm. “I’m going out on my first mission?”

Coulson nods. “Oh seven hundred sharp, I expect you standing in my office.”

Barton smirks and flips him a quick, jaunty salute, and then winks. Coulson all but runs from the locker room before he has a chance to press the little shit back against that alcove wall.

~*~*~

It’s supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission, but Coulson’s been in the business long enough that he should’ve realized nothing’s ever as simple as it appears on paper. Barton’s team gets ambushed, and two agents return to the base in body bags. The third, Barton, is immediately whisked away to the infirmary, and Coulson anxiously paces the hallway outside the examination room, wracked with guilt.

Eventually, the doctor comes out and assures Coulson that the kid is okay. “He’s lucky to be alive, honestly. He was thrown clear when the bomb exploded and he managed to get himself to safety,” the doctor explains as she consults her charts. “Aside from some minor scratches from shrapnel and a concussion, he’s fine. He just needs to be watched overnight, so I’m releasing him to your care, Agent Coulson.”

And that is how Phil Coulson ends up with a loopy, exhausted Clint Barton flopped on his couch like a sad sack of potatoes. He watches Coulson with a disinterested eye, propping his feet up on the coffee table, and he blinks when Coulson’s suddenly sitting beside him, reaching down to untie his shoes.

“I’m not five,” Barton mumbles, and his tone is so damned crabby and childish — borderline whiny, even — that Coulson pauses, throwing the kid a look that is so challenging and filled with an unspoken ‘oh really?’ that Barton scowls and flips him off.

For his part, Coulson merely lets out a derisive snicker and finishes his task of removing Barton’s sneakers and socks, tucking the socks into the shoes and setting them down on the carpet underneath the edge of the coffee table. “You can crash here for the night, and you can only sleep two hours at a time.”

Barton tilts his head to the side, his eyes tracking Coulson’s movements as he makes his way around the coffee table, headed toward the hallway. “Aren’t you gonna debrief me? That’s the standard procedure after a mission, right?”

Coulson hears the catch in Barton’s voice and frowns, pausing in his retrieval of linens from the closet. He can only imagine what’s going through the kid’s head, and he sighs as he closes the door with a quiet click and carries the sheet and pillow back to the living room. “No, I think that can wait. We know the gist of what happened.” He sets the sheet down beside Barton and hands him the pillow, which the kid immediately hugs to his chest. “You did the best you could, Clint. Nobody could’ve foreseen that bomb being planted in the hot dog stand.”

Barton snorts, and he looks like he’s about to make some quip, his mouth forming the start of a word that Coulson can’t quite make out...and then he’s choking back a sob, and Coulson’s heart is just tugged right out of his chest. He doesn’t think, just drops down onto the couch beside Barton and pulls the kid close, arms settling around his shoulders just as the first tears start to fall.

He rubs his hand over Barton’s back, his frown deepening as the kid buries his face against his neck. He can feel the wetness of Barton’s tears against his skin, and he can’t help but feel guilty again. What was he thinking, sending the kid out on a mission? He’s too young to have to watch two good men die, and Coulson wishes he could take back the assignment, hand it off to someone older, someone more qualified, but it’s too late for that now. All he can do is hold Barton and try to offer him comfort as his shoulders shake with sobs muffled against Coulson’s neck.

Eventually, even his hiccups quiet, and they just sit there, Coulson’s arms still cradling him tight. He begins to think that maybe Clint’s drifted off, and he’s just about to shake him awake when he feels the soft press of lips against his collarbone. He swallows, the sound audible in the quiet of the room, but he doesn’t stop Clint, not even his mouth latches onto his skin and starts to suck.

All too soon, he finds himself pressed back against the couch cushions, his lap full of teenager as Clint rocks insistently against him. Clint’s head is bowed forward, his locks falling into his eyes. Coulson makes a mental note that he really needs to get the kid a haircut because that style is definitely against regulation, and then Clint’s head is tilting up, his lips ghosting across Coulson’s, and their breath mingles as they both exhale.

Clint’s lips move across Coulson’s as he mumbles “You gonna stop me again?”

It’s a heady moment, and Coulson has to pause and let his head drop onto the back of the couch so he can gaze up at Clint. His eyes search Clint’s face, sees the hesitation and uncertainty in his bright blue eyes. He drags his tongue over his lips, feeling a rush of pride when Clint’s eyes automatically track the movement, and he grins a little. Against his better judgment (a trend he’s quickly noticing is occurring more frequently around Clint), he says “Don’t you owe me an orgasm?”

The way Clint’s eyes brighten is enough to quell the nervous flip of Coulson’s stomach, and he smiles when Clint kisses him, gasps when the little shit bites his lip, tugging at the little strip of flesh and making desire coil in Coulson’s belly.

Clint draws back after a moment or two and flips his hair out of his eyes. “So, I think I promised you a blowjob if you’d take me back to your place.” He winks and then scoots back off Coulson’s lap, only pausing when Coulson reaches out, grasping his forearms.

Coulson shakes his head. “You’ve got a concussion, Clint. Take it easy.”

Clint snorts and grins. “I’m _fine_. Just let me make you feel good, okay?” He leans up and kisses Coulson again, then works his pants open.

Coulson lifts his hips, his skin buzzing with anticipation as Clint tugs his pants and underwear down. Coulson’s just barely settled back on the couch when Clint licks a few broad stripes over his palm before taking Coulson’s half-hard cock in hand and stroking him with a sure, firm grip.

Coulson groans and lets his head drop onto the back of the couch, exhaling as he bucks into Clint’s hand. “God, Clint,” he mumbles. He reaches out, threading his fingers through Clint’s hair; as their eyes meet, Clint smirks before licking the tip of Coulson’s cock. Coulson’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he shudders.

He keeps his fingers in Clint’s hair as Clint takes him into his mouth, his hand stroking over what can’t fit, and it’s all Coulson can do not to thrust up as Clint’s head bobs down. If he were in possession of his rational mind, he’d commend Clint on the sinful things he does with his tongue, but all he can manage is a string of breathless sounds that form Clint’s name.

He wants to prolong the sensation of Clint’s tongue moving over his length, but far too soon, he’s feeling that familiar tingle forming at his toes and working its way up his body. “Fuck, Clint.” His fingers tighten in Clint’s hair, and he sucks in a breath, trying to find the words to warn Clint that he’s coming, but his voice fails him. His mouth slackens, his back arches, and he spills into Clint’s mouth before sagging bonelessly against the couch, panting for breath.

His smile is sated and easy, his eyelids drooping as Clint climbs up onto the couch, settling against his side. He runs his fingers through Clint’s hair as he rests his head on his shoulder, and he sighs softly. “What about you?” he mumbles as he skims his hand down Clint’s back.

Clint chuckles and presses a kiss to Coulson’s collarbone. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll take care of it later.” He brushes his thumb over Coulson’s thigh. “You should probably put your pants back on. Gotta keep me awake.”

Coulson chuckles softly. “It can wait.” He shifts, stretching out on the couch and pulling Clint against him. Between the two of them, they get the sheet unfolded and draped over themselves, and Clint snuggles into Coulson’s side, his head pillowed on Coulson’s chest. Coulson presses a soft kiss to the top of Clint’s head, and he sighs as he listens to Clint drift off.

Then he closes his own eyes, relaxing. A cat nap won’t hurt.


End file.
